by Amber Bardan
He rubs between my legs. This time there’s oil to mask my shame. He coats me with it. My pussy throbs where it’s stroked.
Luke holds me by the back of the neck, pressing my head firmly to his lap.
No. Yes. No. It’s there—the touch I’ve craved and feared, a finger pressing hard to my anus.
“Please,” I whisper, and close my eyes.
The touch stops. “Please what?”
“Please, I’ve never done that before.” My heart throbs harder. Always been too chicken to try. To even ask.
“It’s okay, baby, we’ll show you how.”
The touch begins again, pulsing against my tight hole. Slick with oil, his finger slides in a fraction. He shoves, then plunges it all the way into my ass.
I twitch in their grasp, gulping air. Pressure fills my back passage.
“See, honey?” He stills. My ass tingles, and my entire being is fixated on that feeling. “We’re going to give this little virgin ass exactly what it wants.”
He moves his finger in the smallest motions, working in and out, until my flesh gives.
Luke’s breaths, deep and aroused, rasp above me. He’s watching Clarke finger my ass and it turns him on. Clarke moves harder. Sensation riots through me.
“This is still reward, Gabby.” He releases my hip, and his free hand moves to my clit. He rubs my pussy until my system lights up with need. Until my blood hums its arousal all through my veins. Until my hips twist, but not away.
He makes a low satisfied sound and pulls my hips back until I’m on my knees, head still in Luke’s lap. Ass in the air. Clarke works a second finger into me.
Now it twinges. The muscles in my ass resist, but he commands their submission like he commands everything else, working and rocking in and out. I’m lost in the feeling. Good and uncomfortable.
His fingers glide over my clit and the pleasure gathers tight in my middle.
He rises behind me, removing his touch from my pussy but not my ass. The tension changes, unwinds a fraction, but pulsates through me. Fabric rustles.
His bare legs brush the backs of my thighs.
I squeeze Luke’s knee. His grip shifts on my neck, and his other hand comes to cover mine. Good cop. Fingers slide free of my ass, and then a bigger harder force presses there. Clarke holds my hips steady.
Air hisses between my teeth.
He’s too big. My heart booms. He won’t fit.
My hands curl. Luke squeezes my fist in reassurance, and changes his grip on my neck, splaying his fingers on the base of my head, massaging. Clarke shoves in. It’s like a firework going off, popping inside me. Stretching and straining and yielding.
A wave of heat has my head spinning.
My breath shudders.
He goes very still halfway in my ass.
“Breathe, honey. We’ve got you.” Clarke holds my hips.
Luke strokes my hair. They do—they do have me. They have me tightly and securely and so attentively.
He presses in the rest of the way. My eyes blur from the shock. I’m too full.
My gulping, heaving breaths ring through the room.
He rocks in place, the pressure building every second he remains inside me as I adjust.
“Good, girl,” he whispers, and pulls out a fraction.
I shout.
He slides back in. It hurts when he moves. But he’s careful, so careful with me.
“You’re so fucking amazing.” He strokes my lower back. “So beautiful—our good girl.”
I don’t want to cry, but I can’t help it. Good girl. Beautiful. Amazing. Theirs. There’s a fullness inside me both where he is and where his words land, that makes me feel like I’ll never be empty again.
Luke eases my head off his lap, and guides me up onto my knees facing him. I gasp and shudder, hyper aware of every shifting movement tightening in my ass. He takes my face and kisses me. His hands bury in my hair, and his hungry tongue fills my mouth.
I tremble. His scrape of his beard on my lips, the graze of his shirt on my nipples, the flood of his breath into my lungs—irresistible. My arousal saturates my pussy. I kiss him back. He shifts in closer. Clarke presses hot to my back, filling my ass.
Luke kneels flush to my front, kissing me. I’m squeezed between them.
But what I want is to be crushed.
My tongue glides into Luke’s mouth, and my arms wrap around him. Clarke draws back, and this time he gives me a meaningful thrust.
Light sparks behind my eyes. The pain’s there, but distant to the mounting arousal.
Luke moves back. I almost reach for him, but Clarke thrusts again, and all I can do is grab onto the back of the couch and take it.
Luke removes his clothes. Pressure mounts in my ass, fueling a deep dark need. He moves harder, faster. I moan. It’s better and worse. There’s something I need, a need flaying me, and I’m helpless to it.
Luke returns to me naked.
He’s so damn hot.
Muscles ripple under his healthy spattering of chest hair. His stomach muscles contract as he moves. My pussy throbs. Moans burst from me, and there’s no containing the sounds.
Clarke grabs a fistful of my hair and tugs me hard against him. “Are you our good girl, Gabby?”
He fucks my ass hard, pulling out all the way out to the tip, and slamming back inside.
My spine bends, pushing my tummy and tits out. Making Luke’s gaze grow hungrier on me. I lose my breath. My extremities tingle.
“Are you our good girl?” he repeats, voice heavy in my ear, and fucks into me again.
“Yes,” I shout.
“Say it.” He releases my hair, and his hand wraps around my throat.
I don’t even think. “I’m your good girl.”
He hauls me backward. I’m on his lap, seated on his lap, his cock rooted in my ass. “And you remember what good girls get?”
Reward, yes. But I can’t talk anymore. My pulse races so fast my teeth chatter. Luke falls to his knees in front of us. My thighs spread, and Luke’s hand slides over me. One, two, too many fingers plunge into my cunt. I cry out, torn by the pleasure. It’s like my vagina has been condensed. Luke’s fingers ease freely through the flood of my arousal, but everything is tight and constricted.
The pressure turns to marrow-deep ecstasy.
Clarke holds my throat watching over my shoulder. “Look at that gorgeous pussy take it with an ass full of my cock.”
Luke moves faster in my pussy. Every inch is sensitized and pleasure steals my breath. Then Clarke does take my breath. He squeezes my throat as his hips buck. Luke grabs my hip, and thrusts his fingers in short sharp movements.
Ecstasy fills me up until it’s not only in my cunt, and ass, and abdomen, there’s pressure in the back of my head right behind my eyes.
I see white, try to gasp, but I’m choked. Exhilaration builds, a rush of adrenaline that’s going to burst out my skin. Clarke grasps my throat with his big hand and takes my ass harder.
I explode. Bliss rips through me. My limbs spasm. My body contorts and I gush, feeling myself squirting before witnessing the clear fluid on my thighs. The grip loosens on my throat. Air floods my lungs, slamming into my brain like a shot of drugs. I come again, screaming now, and gush again.
Clarke wraps an arm around my middle to stop me from twitching onto the floor. I yell nonsensically and it sounds like, but couldn’t possibly be “more,” I’m screaming for.
Luke pulls me forward off Clarke’s cock onto the rug. I’m limp on top of him, but he holds my side and guides his cock to my saturated pussy. He fills me, one excruciating fraction at a time.
I can’t hold myself up, just let myself be lowered onto him.
My hair tugs. Clarke raises me back until I’m straddling Luke, and it’s
only his grip keeping me upright. Luke’s cock fills my pussy, he’s so big. It’s the most perfect fullness. The pressure’s back in my body, like my blood is trying to make its way out through my pores.
Clarke’s face hovers next to me. His lips move. My ears blare with sound. Words. I hear them. They don’t process.
Just sound.
His palm lands on my cheek. A sting bursts through my face, but it’s just more—more sensation, more stimulation.
And that’s all I am.
Sensations.
He slaps me again, and the sound makes sense. “What day is it?”
My gaze sharpens and I’m back in my body, as tender as it is. It still takes seconds to reply. “Saturday.”
He yanks my hair and kisses me, one, two, three times. Firm pecks on the lips.
Luke is still underneath me. I flatten my palms on his belly and move. I’m present but not in control, I just must move. Must feel this. Feel him in me. I slide up and down his cock. He grabs my tits in his hands, thumbs on my nipples, and I lose it completely. I bounce, and rock, and claw at his abs, and nothing is right, nothing is enough. I’m broken. Heat suffuses my back, and I fall forward. There’s another cock, a second pressure at my ass. Like that, it’s like being slammed into a concrete wall.
My limit’s hit.
Chapter Eight
“Watermelon—” I shout.
Everything stops. So sudden and instant and complete, the crackle of fire beside us is the loudest sound. All three of us holding our breath.
Then I’m moved, hauled off Luke and clutched in strong arms.
“Baby?” Clarke, with that one word back to being Dean, scans my face. “You okay?”
I’m breathing again but too rapidly to answer.
“Are you hurt?” He shoves all the hair off my flushed sweat-drenched face.
I shake my head, and grab on to his shoulder. My husband’s face is the most concerned I’ve ever seen it.
“You should have used your safe word sooner.” He stares at me. “Fuck.” He clutches me tight in his arms like I’m tinier than I am. “I saw it on your face, I should’ve put a stop to the scene.”
His remorse hits me like an anvil, but it’s not half as heavy as my own guilt.
My throat burns. I will not cry. That would make him feel worse.
“No, I really wanted to try.” It’s hard to say, the words come more quietly than I’d planned. But props to me, because these are not things I usually admit to.
His sigh fans my forehead.
My love for him fills me worse and more overwhelmingly than every single thing that just happened.
As does the knowledge that I’ve probably ruined us.
I love him so fucking much. He strokes my back.
I will not cry.
Not because this is the first time I’ve seen him in a month. Not because I’d worried until I’d seen him yesterday—seen him in the most convincing role-play characterization he’d ever performed for me—that I’d finally driven him away.
I haven’t been a very good wife.
Luke—Abel really, Dean’s stepbrother, sits up beside us, elbows dropping to his bent knees. “Are you hurt, Gabs?”
I straighten in Dean’s arms, overwhelmed by the urge to cover myself. Cover myself after the way this man has seen, licked, owned and fucked every inch of my body. Together with my husband.
We’re not in character now.
It’s just me, Dean and Abel.
“I’m fine.” I wipe my face on my wrist, hoping I look less ruined than I feel. “This is why we have safe words.”
He nods, his jaw clenching, expression growing graver, his whole presence refuting his gesture. Abel is the gentlest man I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t have believed he’d actually be into this until I experienced his enthusiasm for myself. Now though, he’s back to familiar Abel. Sweet, kind, Abel. And he hates this. Hates me hurt. “You need anything?”
“I’ll take that water.” I glance up at Dean. “If I’m allowed?” I try for a sly smile but feel it fall flat.
Dean just rubs my arm, then kisses the top of my head. If this particular situation hadn’t sobered me so quickly, my husband and I would be deep in aftercare at this moment.
Except I don’t even know how to accept such a thing right now.
Feels like I should still be getting punished.
What have I done?
Abel gets up and heads to the kitchen to get the water I’m now allowed to drink.
There’d been elements of the scene I hadn’t expected, such as them feeding, or rather not feeding me. Those details Dean filled in.
Pippa’s deep excited bark sounds outside as Abel enters her field of sight.
My skin prickles. There’s a lot I hadn’t expected about these scenes. Like meeting them in the woods. Pippa running away. I’d never planned this far. Never actually thought any of this would happen. “How did you make her come here?”
“I used a whistle,” he whispers against my forehead.
There’s an awkwardness between us that plays into the hands of the vicious little voice in my head telling me we’re over. Telling me this has all been a goodbye gift.
That’s why he went to so much effort and made it all so damned real.
How could I have asked for this? We’ve never brought another person into our bed, and if I’m honest with myself, I’d die many times over if he suggested bringing in another woman.
“Do we need to reassess hard limits?”
My chin snaps up. He looks at the fire. Reassess? As in we’d be doing this again? My tongue gets dry. Setting limits is something we do in writing, not in discussion.
Easier for me to get things out when I don’t have to say them.
And Dean, he likes to keep things official like that.
I swallow, searching for the right way to put this.
“No.” My tongue gets stuck. The rest of it, like how there’s still more I long to explore, gets jammed by my conscience, and by the ingrained reticence that protected me while I was younger. Before I met him.
His expression carries the same heaviness as it did that first night his whisper broke through the silence of our bedroom, “What do you really need from me?”
And like that first night my throat clogs.
His gaze moves back to mine. There are these conversations we have eye-to-eye without speaking. Conversations I always believed meant that we just got each other. Dean always seemed to see straight through my walls and understand what was underneath. His sky-blue eyes flicker, searching me. Maybe that belief made me lazy. Made me assume he knew more than he really does.
“What do you want to do now?” There’s a plea in the tug of his mouth to the side.
My chest sinks. Maybe we don’t get each other at all.
“What do you really need from me?”
I never answered him that first time. Or the second, or the third, or the fourth.
The fifth time he asked, I snuck out of bed after he fell asleep and wrote and wrote and wrote. When I arrived home from work the next day a letter waited for me.
What to wear, where to go, what time to leave, instructions down to what shoes went on my feet and what I was allowed to eat. Rules, boundaries and safety commands. Every bossy demand got me hotter, and hotter, so that by the time I sat myself at the bar, I could’ve rocked myself to orgasm right there.
Then I saw him. He’d done his hair different, slicked back.
Introduced himself by another man’s name, and sweet-talked me into going up to his room. The instant we made it through the door he had me up against the wall, and told me I’d made a big mistake.
I should’ve been more careful.
He’d been watching me. H
e was obsessed with me. He’d do anything to have me.
And now I was all his.
Then he fucked like he’d never done before. Not only like he loved me but like he was desperate for me.
Exactly how I’d asked for it.
And in those moments I believed him. I believed I could really be so wanted. Somehow these things were easier to accept in fantasy.
Abel’s footsteps pad across the hardwood floor. He’s put on underwear. Once again I’m reminded of my nudity. He hands me the glass. I gulp the water.
Then he bends down to pick up his pants. He looks up, and his gaze connects with Dean’s. He freezes there for an instant. Dean’s body bristles against me.
The tension thickens, heavy and pregnant between us all.
Oh, god, really, what have I done?
These two men might be stepbrothers, but they’re closer than blood. When Dean’s mom and Abel’s dad passed away in a car crash together it was eighteen-year-old Abel that raised his thirteen-year-old stepbrother.
I’ve asked for a great many things Dean couldn’t give me. He doesn’t give me everything I ask for, and rightly so. Sometimes his response is a different kind of note. Directions to attend meditation, take a hike, or an art class. He understands even those innocent instructions are usually enough. Sometimes simply admitting our darkest desires is a way of making peace with them.
Abel drops Dean’s gaze, and puts on his pants.
If only all desires could be so easily purged.
“I’m going to chop some wood.”
My chest gets heavier and heavier. I glance at the fully stocked woodpile. Abel walks out of the living room.
“I’ll go talk to him.” Dean shifts under me.
My chest thumps. “No, let me.”
“Okay.” The sound of his voice makes me glance back to him. He has that straight-faced look that I’ve seen a thousand times on my own shrink’s face when I’ve said something she finds interesting.
A cautious expressionlessness.
I have no idea what Dean and Abel have been doing or talking about for a month without me, but if there’s a mess there’s one thing I know—it’s mine to fix.
Thwack, Thwack, Thwack.
